


A Wolf By The Ears

by Suchsmallhands



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Also Canon Divergent?, Canon Compliant, I don't know what the fuck to tag this, M/M, this is my contribution, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suchsmallhands/pseuds/Suchsmallhands
Summary: From Seheron to Ferelden, Fenris wonders.auribus teneo lupum





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be uploading the rest of this tomorrow.

_“Though much is taken, much abides; and though we are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are…”_

 

Seheron remained densely covered in fog, a humid wetness which cloyed between the deep foliage covering the island. Leto could still remember the scent of the shoreline, however, and the salt of the ocean bordered by sand in some precious places of the island. Even away from the beach, at home in his master’s estate where his mother and sister resided with him, he could envision the sunlight sparkling on the crests of the water unlike the filtered warmth that fell lazily through the fog of the inner island. Free sand and water, untamed by docks or ships. He didn’t ever get to see it, but the couple ventures that occurred were bright in his young mind.  
Most of the moments on the beach Leto was confronted with the ports. They smelled strongly of fish and wet wood. There he saw the rich Tevinter magisters and their dirty sailors, a funny contrast in his opinion. The ports were safe for the magisters, safe from the rebels that resided deeper in the jungle in secret. He wasn’t meant to speak of the rebels, and he didn’t around the masters, but at night when mother tucked he and Varania into their small bed he would think of the mysterious warriors.  
Here was his home, where he could smell orange trees and salt, always warm in the humid air.  
\--  
Leto sat quietly beside his sister, crouched in silence in a clutter of crates inside the estate kitchens. Mother worked beside the other slaves as they cleaned and prepared for the next meal. They worked quietly, without idle chatter, for the kitchens were too near the dining room for talk without interrupting the mages as they ate. As Leto sat next to Varania he combed his hands through her hair, making the loose and messy braid that she’d taught him.  
The voices of the magisters could be heard through the doorway to the dining room and as Leto’s mind became distracted, hands moving without thought, he was sure that Varania’s stillness indicated her own listening in on the conversation. He detected the difference between her biting words and hands when she played and her quiet now.  
“The Qunari have created tension once again.” A female voice rang out. He knew by the way she spoke she must be magic, only they spoke with power.  
“Unfortunately. Another skirmish was reported, they’re pushing to overtake the island in certainty.” A friend of his master.  
“This business is… taxing.” Murmured his magister lowly, this voice he knew as the one which his mother and older elves answered to. He expected to as well, when he was older. “Fights with the Qunari are more expensive than the native rebels, they’re hardly noticeable now.”  
“I believe some of the Fog Warriors may have been joining the Qunari.” The unknown man spoke, “Picking sides. There have been more elves joining their ranks as of late.”  
“If they are than they aren’t very closely affiliated with the warriors.” The woman responded, “The rebels are natives. Seheron is still ‘kabethari’ to the Qun, and if we’re gone then they’ll only begin reforming the natives. The rebels don’t want either of us here, I’m not so sure they’re ready to ally with them yet.”  
“Whatever it is, I’ll be selling slaves soon. The extra coin will be appreciated until the resistance is settled.” Rumbled the master. Leto’s breath flowed out quietly and he turned his chin back to face Varania’s hair, eyes wider than before. Varania’s hands stilled and she looked to mother, Leto kept his eyes on her hair as he tediously finished the braid to perfection.  
The scent of bread and meat kept in the kitchen and Leto wished he could sneak away to play with Varania, ignoring the silence that hung in the room as the adults did not respond to the conversation. 

\--

Leto held his tongue as he winced down the hall and into his quarters. Late night was closing in and he held his breath as he sat down onto his cot. His muscles ached into the realm of pain and he breathed deeply, gaining control over the pain. It wasn’t nearly enough to affect him, after all his training had been going on since only a few years after being sold to Danarius. He was older, stronger, taller. Muscle deep bruises were a small price to pay.  
Varania’s bare feet brushed the dirt in the doorway, her brow furrowing at his hunched shoulders.  
“You’re back late.” She greeted, stepping inside and coming to sit on the bed.  
“Training went late tonight.” He acknowledged. “Is mother well?”  
He had not seen her since yesterday, after his training hours stretched longer.  
“She’s sleeping in her room.” She lay her hands in her lap and watched him as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed. “It was a long day. But she’s still worrying about you, like always.” Her words sneered mildly.  
“Tell her I’m fine.” His voice rumbled, deeper than it used to be.  
“She knows something’s not normal. You’ve missed dinner twice, now.” Varania growled bluntly.  
“I don’t have control over the schedule.” He narrowed his eyes at her in kind.  
“You seem awfully dedicated to it, though, you haven’t even mentioned dinner.” She folded her arms closed.  
“Did you want me to announce my hunger to all of the people waiting to feed me?” He growled irritably.  
“Funny.” She reached into the folds of her clothing, producing bread from her shirt. “Here.”  
He took it without protest, tearing the half loaf of bread apart eagerly and eating. He wouldn’t bother to complain this time about her withholding of the food until now. He was too tired.  
“Why are you so excited to play swords and shields for the magister?” She spoke quietly, the words sliding past her cool exterior. “Just so they can throw you away when you’re dead early.”  
“It’s none of your concern what I decide to spend my time doing.” He faced her gaze solidly. “There aren’t an abundance of choices any ways.”  
“Yes, but you’re too excited about servitude this time.” She muttered. He didn’t respond to her or the flitter of aggression at her words. “What’s in it for you. There’s an apple in it for you if you tell me.” She smirked coldly.  
“Withholding food yourself, now?” He growled at her, a glimmer of rough, playful, amiable softness in his expression.  
“I suppose.” She stood, walking to the door. His stomach twisted at the thought of herself being a magister and using her magic to keep slaves like them from food. The only thing in the way of her being in their position was her softly pointed ears emerging from her hair.  
She paused at the door and pulled the apple from her shirt, tossing it to him where he caught it and held her gaze.  
“Don’t do anything stupid.” She mumbled, leaving. He held the precious, whole fruit in his hands. 

\--

The opponents no longer held wooden swords and mother was fewer and farther between than ever before. She was getting older, and more tired. Serving Danarius was different from her masters when she raised him and his sister, work here was harsher, stricter.  
Leto pushed his dark hair off his brow, the heat of Tevinter baring down on his sweat laden skin. His sword lay heavy in his hand and he knew with the next slave the fight would get harder. Training for years had made pain easy to bare, bruises were quickly evaluated and then ignored, aching muscles were accepted and noticed so that he could continue fighting.  
Danarius was here this time. He knew that with the next fights his opponents would be more likely to struggle on until he killed them. He rather preferred when his fellow slaves accepted defeat, laying down in the dust so that he could wait for mages to come drag the brittle elves away from him.  
This time, as a female elf emerged and engaged in battle he had to struggle viciously to meet her steel. Fortunately, his skill was the product of training and talent. He succeeded with control and calm as he always did, knowing even when he was struggling that he would win.  
She lay on the dirt, her sword kicked away by his foot as he angled his own longsword at her torso. His stance wide he panted and paused for a moment, the sun burning hot on his well adjusted skin. Her tense body cringed in anticipation before he lowered his weapon and stepped back, looking up. They waited for a moment. He wasn’t worried about her getting up to get her weapon, he felt she was finished.  
He frowned, looking around the moderate arena, finding the trainers as they stood unmoved. His eyes flickered up to Danarius where he sat with acquaintances in the shade. He nearly recoiled his gaze from the discomfort of their eye contact. There was a sleek grime in his gaze that made Leto feel distantly nauseous.  
His brow furrowed, in the mere seconds that the eye contact occurred, the magister nodded. He looked away instinctively, withdrawing. His gaze found the girl on the floor near his feet again. The quiet around the arena dawned realization upon them both; they awaited him to kill her.  
Faced with an understanding like this, he couldn’t even stop to wonder why it was necessary in their eyes. Even if explained he was sure there was no good reason. He began to make the decision to disobey.  
He backed up a few steps, his brow creased and his expression steady. The newly defined muscles in his shoulders rolling as he shifted the weight of his sword.  
The memory of his mother humming old music traced through his mind, the image of Varania screaming as he chased her happily. They would be safe.  
He swallowed and the silence stretched long, the patience of the mages lasting longer than he would expect. They were accustomed to quick acquiescence from elves. This however, was the training of a guard.  
He stepped towards her again, her eyes tracking his movement. He knew that he looked like a predator in this way, as he lowered his hand to take her arm. He helped her stand, retreating and raising his weapon to point at her own on the ground before settling into a stance again.  
He couldn’t give himself time to think, forcing the battle on to drown out the racing of panic in his brain. However much he tried to hide his mind behind the instinct of his body, even his stomach fell cold with sick terror. Somewhere behind, the child in him clawed desperately in its last moments in vain. 

\--

Varania stood in his way as he tried to exit his room.  
“No, Leto!” She snapped in anger, baring the way with her hands on the frame of the door, chin tilted up at him. He was tall, by elven standards, still shorter than the magisters. Their standards mattered so much more. So he ignored her.  
“Move, sister.” He gritted his teeth. He would be leaving against her will, to fight his last competitor for the position as Danarius’ guard. For the freedom of her and his mother.  
“I’ve heard what you’re doing!” She spit, her breath shallow and fearful. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, what you’re doing! Do you think _personal guardian_ is the end of it? You know they have something planned, what if it’s dangerous?”  
“It won’t matter, Varania.” He snapped, “I’m aware of the circumstance. We won’t meet each other again afterwards, regardless.”  
“Mother doesn’t want this.” She threw her word at him. He closed his eyes for a moment, holding composure.  
“I don’t care.” He murmured.  
“What is this for?” Her words fluttered fast, “For us? You’re doing this for us, aren’t you?”  
He looked at her, saying nothing.  
_Anything is better than this._ His thoughts reminded him. And he believed them, could still remember the fury of the magic that burned through his flesh when he’d disobeyed, scars from punishments. Could still hear the scream of the last slave that died through his punishment. Could still remember the horrid bruise on his sister’s thigh when she’d made a mistake and been struck. And they all just covered their bruises and carried on, not pitying each other or coddling because none of them thought it would matter. It was always quiet solidarity and acceptance. He remembered Varania sliding her clothing over the bruise and drawing her gaze away from his.  
“If this is about freedom _don’t!_ We don’t want to leave! What would we do, Leto, Mother is tired! This is not what we want.” She stated heavily. Doubt carried thoughts of his Mother hungry and homeless on the streets, there was no mercy for elves in Tevinter.  
_Anything is better than this. Anything is better than this…_  
A mage arrived behind her in the hall to take him to his battle. She removed her arms, looking between them. He moved past her and followed the guard away.  
“ _Leto._ ” Her voiced stopped him merely a few paces away. Her lips still parted on her words, her brilliant green eyes filled with refusal, her posture looking hollow as if he’d scraped something out of her chest.  
He met her gaze, his own eyes flickering with unhappiness. He turned away from her. 

\--

He blinked his eyes open, his arms shifting with exhausted restlessness. He vaguely remembered waking a few times before, it seemed he always woke from heavy sleep with exhaustion clinging to his being still.  
Two mages stood over him, smooth and fluid light flowing from their hands. His muscles contracted all over his body in response, naturally steeling in sight of magic. At his awakening he realized his pain. The pain was everywhere, bone deep across his body. From his head to the soles of his feet, he could feel the pain like shards of burning glass in his bones.  
For a brief, strange moment, he thought of the scent of orange trees. The thought brought longing into his world of physical pain, before fleeing quietly.  
He tried to lift his arm without thinking, quickly being restrained to the mattress as the mages continued to work magic over his marked body. Healing magic.  
One of the mages turned away from him, speaking to an elvhen girl. She brushed away her dark red hair, hands grasping her apprentice robes. He blinked blearily at her, exhaustion muddling his senses.  
In the back of his mind he noticed the way she looked at him, something shifting behind her eyes. But the façade of calm remained and she left as he lost consciousness.  
He thought of nothing and remembered hardly anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris did not continue to see the red haired girl and did not notice this at all.  
Standing behind Danarius, his arms at his sides, he watched silently as he discussed prospects with a wealthy magister. They spoke of blood magic casually and Fenris knew this would be another project that he would have to sit quietly by and watch, another potential failed abomination that he would have to kill. He never could quite master killing the failed projects without thinking of the humanity he’d just seen moments before. So commonly elven slaves. It did not stop him from quietly and efficiently doing his duty, as with everything else.  
The partner Danarius spoke with was guarded distantly but blatantly by armored soldiers, standing silently at a respectful distance by the doors. Fenris had already evaluated them, settled into the room and assessed the potential danger. He would fair easily in a fight if necessary.  
He folded his hands behind his back, waiting. He was the only guard for his master, something he knew Danarius used to intimidate his enemies and allies alike. He knew that the lyrium burned across his skin was intimidating for onlookers, he understood as he looked around and never saw anyone else with similar bodies. The soft, defined white stood out ever starkly against his dark skin.  
The meeting apparently went awry and tipped out of favor. He knew that the situation had become potentially dangerous for his master, otherwise he would not have been given the silent signal to dispatch the magister. Danarius wasn’t flippant, he didn’t kill mages unless it was strictly beneficial.  
With a shock of pain rippling through his body he fell smoothly into a stance and lunged for the magister. The pain was manageable, he was able to gauge it correctly and ignore it easily, his markings flaring with virility in him.  
He killed the magister and drew his sword before the guards could reach him, Danarius sat quietly at the table. With one elbow leaned against the polished wood he watched without expression as Fenris swung his blade and ducked under the several blows of the numerous enemies. He panted and efficiently finished his fight, having already prepared for this outcome.  
He stood out of his stance, looking to Danarius and waiting for the nod to put away his blade. Danarius rose and he followed him away.  
For a moment he questioned his ability to take the man’s life so thoughtlessly. Thinking back on his words of his prospective magical projects, he decided he didn’t mind taking the mage’s life. These weren’t thoughts he dwelled on, personal thoughts did no good for his duties to his master. 

\--

All around them chaos leapt from the scenes. Fenris was careful to protect Danarius from harm as smoke and fire and angry cries clouded the way.  
Making it to the dock, Fenris looked up at the towering ships through the smoke pierced by the burning sun. Many ships already pulled away in hasty escape, some crew members working to put out fires caused by the battling streets.  
He didn’t have time to look around as the sharp, hard and low sound of a magical spell vibrated through the air next to him. Even Danarius was casting spells now. The familiar resonating of his master’s magic snapped his thoughts more firmly into the battle, ignoring his surroundings in favor of focusing on the safe way to the ship.  
The wood of the docks thudded hollow beneath their feet as Danarius spoke with the first mate hastily. The man was in no mood for taking refugees and pointed at Fenris a few times. He caught only a bit of the conversation as he engaged in another foe, his blade swinging on one fatally. Another combatant swung on him and he ducked, sliding behind and kicking them over the side into the water.  
“Fenris!” He heard his call, turning to face him. His sword still in hand and his eyes wide and sharp with battle, white hair clinging to the sweat on his face. “Stay.”  
He narrowed his eyes in confusion for a brief moment as he watched Danarius turn and board the ship, the crew members moving as one to raise sails and depart. The ship was moving out and his master was gone as he stood dumbstruck, staring.  
He turned his head away and looked back to the warring city, a blank confusion setting at his mind. He walked without direction to dry land, his sword held limply by his side in uncertainty.  
_Stay?_ He stared for a silent moment, barely aware of the screaming of battle. _Stay where?_  
Suddenly, an attacker fell on him. The movement shocked his senses and he engaged suddenly, his lyrium flaring from no prompt of his own. The brands burned wildly and he grit his teeth, reaching into the man’s throat and squeezing until it gave under his hand. The man fell to the ground and his hand was freed, warm blood dripping from his finger tip.  
He shook his hand and raised his head, eyes sharp as he made to escape the mass with his pulse thundering high in his chest. 

\--

Fenris woke blearily, blinking awake quickly. He always woke easily and quickly. Opening his eyes, he saw the cloth ceiling of a tent, dim sunlight warming through the fabric. He sat up and reached for his sword, wide eyes looking around at the inside of the tent. Weapons scattered here and there, some clothing, supplies. Looking up at the low sunlight again he listened intently, hearing the soft sounds of life outside the door. He’d have found the inside of the tent rather calming in another world, perhaps.  
He remembered the night before, the white warriors who emerged from the fringes of the battle and fell in beside him. They joined him against the assailants, so when they fell he did not automatically turn on them. He remembered their calming gazes as they waited silently for him to attack or flee. They seemed to see through the instinctive energy in his eyes, past the confusion.  
They had asked for his name, he’d given it in one word response. They offered for him to come with them and he lowered his sword, although not sheathing it, and followed them. Why he hadn’t run was a mystery. Perhaps he was looking for someone to tell him what to do.  
Now he stood and swung his sword onto his back, sliding smooth and quiet to the door. Listening for a moment he decided there was no point in trying to run. He expected he could care for himself if they were dangerous, he was still disoriented, and he’d seen last night that they weren’t mages.  
He pushed the curtain aside and ducked out of the tent, eyes calculating as he drew up straight. His feet were still set a bit wider apart, ghosting a battle position.  
It was a large camp shrouded by dense trees. The sunlight filtered through the leaves leaving the floor of the forest warm and humid. Some of the camp extended past his vision, but what he could see was calm and amiable. Some people sat quietly around the warm dirt, some laughed with each other in a circle around a low fire burning materials that created light smoke. He noticed it as a technique to hide their presence from outsiders. Many tents dotted the area. He looked around, unsure and befuddled before his name called him.  
His body tensed as he looked to a taller woman who approached him. His mind flickered to his lyrium as it simmered hotly along his blood.  
“Hello, friend.” She murmured, pausing at a fair distance from him. He didn’t open his mouth, looking at her dumbly. He couldn’t think of anything to say.  
“Fenris, isn’t it?” She inclined her head kindly, waiting for him. Her skin was painted pale white thoroughly, clothed by similarly white leathers. Looking around many of them shared her paint.  
“Yes.” He blurted. The confused urge to escape still skittered his thoughts, wondering what he was to do.  
“Right, we wanted to thank you for your help yesterday. Your sword was much appreciated.” He swallowed, remembering the last day.  
“My help?”  
“Of course. We’ve been waiting for an opportunity to drive the magisters out of the city for a while.”  
“Ah.” He mumbled dumbly, beginning to catch up slowly. He remembered the mindless fighting he’d done the night before against magisters. He was trying to escape the boundary of the city when he’d been overcome by three of them. Their magic had propelled him and he’d fought furiously until the warriors were suddenly among the battle at his side, painted in white.  
“You weren’t very injured, just a cut there.” She pointed and he lifted his arm to see it, he only now noticed the dull ache. “You were a bit tense last night… We all were, I’m sure, so we thought we’d leave it ‘till we’d all rested. Would you like healing now?”  
His brow furrowed and he looked around the camp for magic, his shoulders tensing again.  
“We’ve got a few bandages and elfroot salves this way.” She gestured to a tent. He exhaled and nodded following her.  
They sat outside on the ground among the fallen leaves as she wrapped his arm. He kept his eyes shifting between her and his surroundings, taking in the community around him. They spoke quietly to each other, erupting occasionally into bouts of laughter, people came and went in the direction of the city and deeper into the forest.  
His eyes caught the woman as she paused her ministrations for a moment, resuming though her eyes flickered over the white lines across his skin.  
“We haven’t exactly got any healing mages here.” She murmured good naturedly, lifting a piece of the bandage to smooth medicine over his now clean wound.  
She wiped away remaining dirt and blood from his arm. He consciously controlled the uncomfortable sensitivity he felt where the cloth dragged over his markings, it didn’t hurt. It had been a rough few days and the lyrium was more awake than usual for now, leaving a dull ache when energy flared through them. “My name is Dalia, by the way.”  
“Thank you.” He murmured quietly.  
“Of course.” She nodded, pulling her hands away, “I must ask… what are these markings? I’ve never seen anything like it.”  
His eyes moved over her face. She’s an elf, like him. A tall one at that, normally he was taller than the other elves.  
“Lyrium.” He answered curtly.  
“Lyrium?” Her eyes widened, looking up at his face. Pure magical energy was rarely seen imbedded under someone’s skin, he understood. At least not successfully. It was a gift of his own tenacity that he’d survived himself.  
“Yes.” He nodded, thinking of how he must look to her, to everyone. The cool white lines lain up from under the hem of his armor and around his throat like rope, curling up his chin to his mouth.  
“I see.” She nodded, “I suppose it is for battle, then? I saw them brighter yesterday.”  
“Yes.” He nodded.  
“You’re from out of port, yes? You seem to have an accent.” She smiled playfully.  
“Yes…” He cleared his throat, still adjusting to common tongue as it was. “Yes, Arcanum. From Tevinter.”  
Her smile faded, replaced by a shadow at the name.  
“The Imperium.” He met her gaze for a moment, nodding.  
“I assume those were not voluntary, then.” She nodded to his lyrium laden arm. He looked down at them, opening his mouth.  
“I don’t… know.” He blurted, chastising himself for speaking so freely. He was still confused, but he didn’t like speaking without thought. “I don’t remember.”  
“Hm.” She murmured, packing away the medical supplies. His arm was cleanly wrapped with medicine and bandage.  
“You should know if you plan to stay that we’re not on good terms with the Imperium.” Dalia spoke, meeting his eyes. He was not used to such unavoidant eye contact, used to looking away from people when they spoke. “We’re the Fog Warriors, natives from here. We’ve been waiting for a moment to capitalize on as a way to push the magisters back. The Qunari were helpful, this time.”  
“I see.” He nodded. He was still experiencing his aversion to mages, new as it was. He’d always been angry and tense with them… but he’d never fought against one until last night. Not of his own volition. Not in that way, openly. Fighting mages is unsafe, insane. Now he was still settling, not sure where he was, yet. He knew he could kill mages if they asked him too, however.  
“Right.” Dalia nodded, “Well, if you’re staying let me show you around. We’ll be glad for your talent if you lend it.”

\--

Fenris sat among the warriors, the fire crackling before them. The sun was obscure behind the trees, low and leaving. What light remained faded slowly and the warriors laughed and fed each other pleasantly. Sparks erupting in flocks to the dark air.  
He was still adjusting to them, though it had been about five days he was confused by their community every day. Looking around now he saw them leaning on each other as they cackled joyously at jokes and stories. This was all new to him and he was not accustomed to this. This idle socializing. The way they were content to talk and do little else at the end of their days, and all of the physical contact…  
Fenris’ life had contained nothing to prepare him for this environment. Although he had been around many people, none of them ever behaved so… brazenly. He’d think them weak if he had not seen their strength in battle, their virility first hand.  
With his master, wherever he was now, Fenris was kept quiet in most social situations between the magisters. However, he’d never wanted to be a part of their conversations, and their gatherings were nothing like this. Nothing at all. They did not touch, never each other, only cloying petting on himself when Danarius allowed it.  
He could certainly not imagine them laughing and hanging over each other, sprawled in the warm dirt and leaves around a fire outdoors. These people were cooking their own food. Magisters did none of this.  
The warriors spoke of their own lives, instead of business, together.  
Even with the rest of the elves, Fenris never befriended any other slaves. They were quiet, the slaves were. Tired. There was no time for this at the end of the day, only sleeping and eating. Besides, he couldn’t make friends with the slaves in the way that the other elves did with each other anyways. He was hardly with them, did not sleep in their quarters, did not eat with them. He was isolated from the other slaves as a personal guard, and it was a good thing. He would not desire to eat in front of them anyways, he knew the privilege that he was given included healthy rations of food. He had no desire to be near them while they ate what meager bread they were given.  
The slaves were different from him, were held to different duties, standards, and punishments. They were each other’s allies and he was not one of them. He knew that, there was nothing between them.  
He’d not been equipped to deal with the warriors. They were… affectionate. With each other, they touched when they spoke. Becoming excited they would squeeze a companion’s arm and raise their eyebrows, faces full of expression, open like he was not accustomed to. Speaking of something gentile or serious, they made soft touches on their friends, making expressions of comfort that Fenris was still adjusting to.  
These people were vastly different to anything he’d ever encountered. He knew he had forgotten parts of his past, he felt aware of blank spots, but all that he knew was the way of the magisters. These were far from them.  
If they were tactile with their companions, they were public with their mates. Fenris had seen displays of strong affection between pairs. He knew that people could become more deeply involved than sexual partners, he’d seen plenty of mages who valued each other highly in personal regard. It was how strongly they displayed it that he was unused to. He’d seen pairs kiss deeply before a skirmish with remaining magisters in the city. He’d seen some people who seemed to be involved with two people at a time, all three of them in amicable displays of partnership. Everything from chaste hand holding to brief signs of emotion in a hand on someone’s back or brushing through their hair.  
While he was still adjusting and still partially guarded, he was becoming accustomed to their ways. They were tightly interlocked. He understood how they survived together, aside from their prowess in battle, they were constantly protecting each other.  
Fenris’ thoughts lulled him as he watched them, seeing a woman place fond kisses over the side of another woman’s face. A father near him leaned against his mate and held a sleeping child in his lap.  
From his reverie, he was jolted with the shock of energy reacting strongly with his lyrium. He gritted his teeth, inhaling sharply as his skin tingled and his eyes widened with the memory. It had only been a few days since his last encounter with magic but he had not expected it at this calm gathering of some of the warriors.  
Looking up he saw one of their people playing magic on the sparks of the fire, twirling them around and manipulating their shape. Some of the warriors looked on.  
At the sight he leapt stiffly from his place, backing away from them with his feet set wide and white glow lightening his body threateningly. He stared with shock and anger as the mage dropped his magic, the sparks cooling and disappearing into the air. The company around the fire looked at Fenris in surprise, disturbed from their calm.  
“He’s a mage.” Fenris spit. At this the warriors nearest him and nearest the mage were standing as well. His markings were shimmering fully now and he cursed himself for not having his sword. What was he thinking.  
“Fenris.” Dalia interrupted, speaking for the rest of the wary warriors who eyed him without moving. There was no fight in their expressions.  
He looked at her stiffly. She raised her hands in a diplomatic gesture, making the circle of silent warriors shift on their feet as if settled by her leadership.  
“He’s with us, one of our mages.”  
“One?” He looked around at the rest of the gathering searching for more magic.  
“Yes. One. We have several mages in our ranks.” His fists tightened and he was unable to relax his body.  
He was unused to openly challenging mages but he was doing little thinking, his reactions instinctual. Dalia spoke again.  
“He’s not an Imperium magister, Fenris.” She lowered her voice gently, “He’s not an enemy. He’s ours.”  
The group looked at him calmly, awaiting his reaction. He swallowed, staring at the mage. The shock of his magic sensed in his lyrium still made him feel sick. His skin felt hot and he remembered the absolute power the mages had over him. It made him feel stuck and voiceless.  
He backed away a few steps, straightening and dimming in his white glow, though his fists remained clenched and his lyrium still warmed his skin softly.  
“I need a moment.” He forced out, backing away before turning and leaving.  
He went and found his sword, a simple comfort, and found an area a few paces into the woods that gave him respite. Under the trees it was dark, save for the moonlight through the leaves. The sound of the warriors behind him drifted his way as they spoke with each other amicably.  
He rediscovered his confusion. He’d found them all so tightly knit and it was new to him, but he’d understood it. It was simple.  
Now they were mages that those humans and elves were smiling at. Mages they were kissing and protecting. Mages they were turning their backs on willingly. Did they not see their power?  
Did they not value their freedom.  
The sound of footsteps brought his long ears twitching and catching the noise, the gate was steady and loud, not a threat.  
“Fenris.” Dalia spoke to him. He turned his head over his shoulder to see her from where he leaned against a wide tree. She made him aware of her place before stepping closer to stand near him.  
“I thought you’d left for a moment.” She put her hands on her hips, her brow furrowed as she looked at him. His arms stayed crossed and he remained still.  
“I did not.”  
“I see that.” She frowned, crossing her arms loosely. “I… have assumed that you were a slave before. In Tevinter. Forgive me for saying…”  
“Yes.” He answered. He was still a slave, was he not? He still had a master.  
“I’m sorry we surprised you like that.” She assented. “And I should tell you we have no ill will towards you. You’ll come to no harm here, I know that, you should as well.”  
He was silent, unsure of what to say.  
“Your help in the last two battles we’ve fought with you has been valuable, impressively so. I’m sure you’ve defended many of ours from worse injuries.”  
His expression twitched with frustration.  
“Battles against mages.” His low voice growled.  
“Yes, some, that’s true. We have had battles since the beginning with mages, but many magical people have been on our side of the fight since the beginning.” She murmured, “When I said we were enemies of the Imperium I did not mean enemies of mages.”  
He gritted his teeth, “I have not met mages in my life time who were not of the Imperium.”  
“I’m very sorry for that, indeed.” She murmured lowly, his eyes glimmered at her words. “But if you’ll let us, I’d be glad to introduce you to the first ones. Or show them to you, even, if you’d feel more comfortable being aware of who they are.”  
He swallowed, he did not know yet, he was still working out how a mage could live so carelessly outside of the Imperium. The Imperium was magic. He had no desire to introduce himself to another person who could take away his will with their power. His humanity.  
Suddenly he felt very aware of his own functionality to the magisters. He wasn’t just a slave. He was a sword. He had never thought about his own enslavement. There was no moment for reflection, had not been before.  
He felt deep unsettlement and disgust. The sword on his back felt heavier.  
“Listen, Fenris.” Dalia unfolder her arms, “We’re glad to have you. I don’t know where you’re from but we don’t turn people away who want to fight with us. If you’ll stay we can certainly welcome you.”  
Her tone hardened, “But our people are ours. That includes our mages. And we won’t tolerate threats to us, nor will we treat them unfairly. If you’re to stay with us we can promise safety, from everyone, but you’ll have to accept all of us.”  
He met her gaze steadily, his jaw set hard.  
“I understand.” He answered. She nodded. 

 

\--

He learned which people were mages and learned how to become comfortable, although tensely, around them. He learned how to fight alongside them instead of for them, and he learned how to accept their presence when sitting at meals with the warriors.  
He kept his distance widely, however, and none of the warriors resented his decision.  
He learned how to receive their amicable touches, which were different from the magisters’, and they learned not to be so tactile with him in turn, as it gave him more discomfort than anything else.  
Weeks passed and became comfortable with them, they integrated him into their society and he learned how to live freely. While he naturally defied control over him, somewhere in the back of his mind he was still unsure of weather he was a slave or not. He had yet to understand.  
However, when the topic came up infrequently among the warriors, they spoke of his enslavement as strictly past tense. He was unsure of what to make of it.  
What he knew for sure however, he came to realize months later, was that should his master return these people would be in danger.

\--

 

Skirmishes between Qunari and magisters from the Imperium picked up again and increased in intensity. Fenris fought battle after battle alongside the warriors, wearing the white paint with them at times as they flanked the Qunari for the time being and held the magisters at bay.  
It wasn’t until today that Fenris woke with a start, hearing the shouts of the warriors erupting from inside the camp nestled in the dense jungle. He leapt to his feet, grabbing his sword and forcing on his gauntlets and armor, bursting from the tent in preparation to fight another Imperium cell.  
He caught Janis’ eye, a man he’d become acquaintances with over his time here. Janis faltered in his jog past the tent, looking at Fenris with worry that gripped him coldly before sprinting away towards the commotion.  
He fell into the crowd and let his eyes upon a sight of horror.  
Danarius stood before them with a young boy in his hand. The mage from all those nights ago.  
The young mage panted in fear and his eyes held wide as he stood stiffly where Danarius gripped him. The warriors around him nearly trembled with rage but none would move before the signal was given by Dalia.  
“What do you want?” Dalia spoke clearly and quickly, taking no pretense in this business.  
“I believe you’re in possession of an elf that I’m here to retrieve. No harm will come to the child, if you cooperate.”  
The sound of his voice locked Fenris’ muscles, freezing him. It had been so long. He’d forgotten.  
“We’re not in any position to bargain with you.” Dalia spoke, her own fists clenched.  
“I’d say so.” Danarius’ voice snaked over them, brandishing the hostage as proof. Fenris prepared to walk away from the warriors, to leave in return for their boy. The knowledge made his skin feel cold in sweat.  
“We’re not giving him to you.” Dalia answered, though Fenris wondered how none of the fear penetrated her voice.  
“Fenris!” Danarius called and the words made his muscles feel like stone. “Kill them.”  
His mind went blank for the moment that it took for Dalia to signal the warriors’ attack on Danarius. He didn’t know if the child survived or not, he doubted it, but the Fog Warriors fell on him with cries and defensive magic began to resonate through his lyrium.  
Danarius’ magic.  
He turned on the nearest warrior and swung his blade out, cutting through and felling them. He saw their shock, as he lunged at them over and over, their horror. He saw the hell in their eyes as their blood littered his glowing hands and he never saw hatred or anger. Only betrayal.  
The battled raged on and then it was half of the warriors against Danarius and half of them against Fenris. Their prowess was seasoned and hard on him, drawing out a screaming ache from his muscles and lungs as he fought against them. They were old warriors, raised on battle and christened with conflict against Qunari and magic from the earliest age. And, making them more dangerous than all, they were free. And in love with each other.  
That’s what brought the most strain from his sword as he fought, as he struggled against their overwhelming power and numbers.  
They were warriors but Fenris knew how they fought. And he was a weapon in himself, a wolf that they’d welcomed into their presence knowing he had strength.  
Perhaps not this much.  
The battle subsided slowly, bit by bit, and with every life he took Fenris reforged the shackles over his body.  
Dalia kneeled bleeding on the ground near the fight with Danarius when he found her, her eyes locking with his. She must have seen something there because her expression smoothed over with detriment. He forced his sword through the major artery in her torso, pulling back and letting her body fall across the legs of another dead warrior.  
Her lips mouthed his name as she choked over her last breath.  
When Fenris lifted his eyes to see his master he paused, seeing blood all over him. He wheezed in pain and for the first time, Fenris saw him weak.  
His breathing stopped as Danarius met his eyes, hard and cold.  
He looked down at his hands, so soaked with blood that they dripped, splashes of it scattered over his chest and up the blade of his great sword. He took a step back and looked at the bodies of the warriors.  
The family on the ground around him, dead.  
Looking back up he was suddenly gripped with mindless flight, throwing his sword onto his back and turning his heel. He ran faster than he’d ever run before, his battle worn muscles losing their ache and suddenly pounding through the jungle with adrenaline.  
He’d never fled with this much speed in his life, the wind forcing his hair back and filling his heaving lungs. His mind filled with enough terror to overflow into his body, leaving white noise.  
He stowed away on a ship, leaving Seheron with the firm belief that he was not a slave.


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris slinked silently over the walls of the palace garden, he’d make his way into the house and take out another magister.   
He kept his sword on his back, his crouch low and coiled as he slipped through the patterned shadows up to the bedroom door of the target. Pausing in the safety of the dark he knelt down with his head low, the doors were beautiful and clean, glimpses of wealth through the rich curtains of the room. Creeping forward he checked the lock, making sure there was no quiet entry. He frowned and looked up at the balcony overhead. He’d have to climb.   
It wasn’t favorable but he didn’t grumble any complains as he made his way up the short face of the wall to slip over the lip of the balcony and into the open French doors of the upstairs. He rolled his eyes, really they were making this easy. He wasn’t critiquing his mercenary targets but honestly, did they not imagine someone could time the guard’s route intervals and scale the garden wall.   
He should really take higher paying jobs. He’d work on it.   
He passed quietly through the doors into the dark house, making no pause to inspect the rich loft library of this home. He wasn’t interested, he padded with the intent of a hunting wolf, snake’s silence, ready power of a panther in the night. He had no hesitation.   
He made his way down the tight winding stairs to the floor.   
This job was to take out a magister that had cheated a noble on a deal, something dishonorable for both parties. But Fenris wasn’t in the business of judging his employers. The noble wanted the magister dead for protection, or something he couldn’t care about. This mage had slaves that he’d seen when scouting the house, saw their bruises. That was enough for him to pause any questioning he may have formulated. Enough to quiet his thoughts as he made it to the bedside of the mage.   
He lay with a woman.   
Fenris made quickly about it, reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart he quickly covered his mouth as the man seized for a moment. His heart failed quickly in his hand and he retrieved it and pulled away.   
He hoped for the sake of the slaves in their quarters that the woman who lay beside him had no interest in his malignant pursuits.   
He left through the back door and jogged out of the garden, warm blood coating his hand. He’d clean it when he could, climbing the garden wall and trying to leave as little blood on the stone and briar as possible.   
He crested the wall and crouched lowly over it, watching the guards until they disappeared from sight, the waxing moon cool on the nape of neck. His white hair fell like sleeping ghosts over his forehead, covering the three points of lyrium over his brow. The west wind soft against his cheeks, he wondered if it still carried the scent of the Nocen Sea, ringed by Tevinter and Seheron. He’d been north of Antiva for too long now, taking advantage of the jobs.   
A lot of people had footwork they would pay money for in their feuds here, plenty of magisters making enemies. Not many payed him to free slaves but he freelanced in his own time, the loot from the slavers was always fair enough. He was happy to repurpose the money they lined their pockets with off the backs of elves and innocent people.   
He had no interest in moral disputes or protective championing, he was a mercenary after all.   
Being free was the strangest experience he’d met in his life, even with the warriors he was unsure of what freedom was. Out here with the wind at his back and no one at his side but his shadow, he understood. Being free was all he had interest in, being right was for others. He wanted not to be right or wrong, but to be chargeless and human.   
He’d found it for himself in the previous years. Every one of Danarius’ hounds which tracked his precious wolf, he felled. The fear of them spurred his flight, reminded him that he was free and did not have to remain that way.   
However, he wouldn’t pass up a group of slaves that he could free. His abilities had been inflicted upon him, not taught to him, but he would use them as he saw fit.   
Now, with the wind warm out of the west he decided to follow it to Rivain. Another land, different from this one, would calm his paranoia, he thought. Any land would be good to him, if he was free in it.   
Any land that kept his back turned to Tevinter. 

\--

Fenris breathed in the salt air, bare feet padding over cool sand. It was early morning, an hour from sunrise, but still the moon shown waning in the sky.   
He surveyed the beach again, assuring himself it remained empty. He made his way to the lapping water. Looking down he passed his toes into the shallow water, brow furrowing briefly at the cold touch.  
He crouched down, lowering his hands into the tide, letting them lay still as the shifting water leached the blood from his hands. Always with the blood.   
The hands of the water touched him softly, reaching into the creases of his palms and cleaning him, folding his lyrium lined fingers into the ocean for a moment.   
He was unused to cold waters. In Tevinter there were only hot coasts, where the sweat dripped down his temple and he didn’t mind. Rather he appreciated the sweat, the warmth. Then with the warriors, he got the chance to actually visit the water. He got to see the water under the sun, the first time he could walk to the water instead of looking at it. Slaves didn’t want for such things; they did not desire to experience things. All they wanted was to make through the next minute successfully pleasing their master. In Seheron he discovered for the first time, in his disoriented flight from captivity, the ability to see the water if he wanted to.   
He was still caught by surprise in some moments, these years later, the ease which freedom existed in. That if he wanted something, he could simply retrieve it. He smiled dimly at his hands, sliding them together softly, it was hard to believe that some people lived their whole lives doing as they please.   
With freedom came such fear, true, he realized that he could actually starve to death now that he was responsible for himself. But he knew he was intelligent and cunning, it served him well.   
The blood that was carried away kindly by the chilling sea was the blood of Danarius’ hunters. They were only some of many that he’d killed. Sometimes they were smarter than others, attacking him in his sleep or bringing numbers large enough to challenge him, perhaps a mage or two when his old captor spared the coin.   
This time they were easily thrown, lunging for the first lyrium infused elf that they saw on the street wasn’t the smartest strategy they could create.   
Fenris lifted from his crouch, looking at the soft lines of white under his skin below the pale moonlight. They looked natural to him. As if they were a part of the elements, no different from the lunar shine.   
He was beginning to think that perhaps he could accept his markings. He still held contempt for them, he wasn’t past it yet. They still tingled so carefully when he was touched, still wrapped around his body like chains. But as each year passed he decided, perhaps, he could accept them as part of himself. As his own skin.   
Perhaps that day would come.   
He stepped out of the tide, the chill getting to him. He was not one for cold, it tended to make him achy and more easily rattled, but the farther south he traveled through Rivain the colder it became. He kept on, regardless. 

\--

The island on the southern tip of Rivain, Llomerynn, was the last land that he would know as hot.  
Wycome remained warm, and upon following the coast of the Free Marches, Fenris begrudgingly found colder and colder land. He was lucky, and he knew it, for the waters from the north eastern Amaranthine Ocean kept the coastal lands warm. He didn’t stray from the Waking Sea when he reached Ostwick, holding fast to the area between the Vimmark Mountains and the tepid sea.   
In brief moments that he spoke with strangers on his journeys, brief as they remained, he reluctantly recalled the time spent in Seheron. - He didn’t favor word of a tattooed elf from the vicinity of the Imperium making its way back to Danarius, but he figured it didn’t matter. There were only so many elves with lyrium in their skin, they could come for him if they wanted. He didn’t mind dying free if they managed it. – The moments of story telling that he shared with people met in travel always reassured him that it could after all, be colder. Ferelden was only across the sea if he’d like to see for himself.   
He couldn’t say that he wanted to find out himself, he’d leave those winters to the Ferelden’s and their durable dogs. 

\--

Fenris was east of Ostwick, making his way slowly.   
Work here was little to nothing, leaving coin to be desired. However, he was smart and kept himself comfortable. Fortunately, his standards of comfort had been low for all his life, all that is that he could remember of it.   
He was in a small port city, sitting quietly in a shaded corner of a quaint, open courtyard when he heard the flurry of news. He sat leaned back in his chair, sipping water from a cup as the sun warmed the lazy market.   
A younger woman jogged into the yard, a fluttering paper in her hand. She handed the paper to a guard standing in front of the small official building.   
The guard took the letter and read it, his words carrying over to the people milling about.   
“ _Blight?_ ” Guard looked up in shock.   
“In Ferelden, there should be refugees coming in the next days across the Free Marches.” The messenger spoke.   
“Maker…” The guard paused, “Thank you.” They turned and brought the letter up the stairs to the hall.   
Words erupted around the city and the square, the fifth blight erupting in Ferelden.   
A shame, Fenris frowned. Another cursed product of magic.


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris waited for hours in the shadows of the Low Town streets of Kirkwall.  
His arms crossed he leaned against the stone, watching for the hired hands to enter the alienage, the moon obscured behind high walls.  
He found it rich that information on his past just happened to make its way into the city of chains. Making his way into the city he hadn’t missed the towering statues of chained slaves hanging against the pillars.  
Fortunately mercenary work was abundant in Kirkwall and he had enough coin to work with Anso. He expected this to be a trap, and if Danarius was setting a trap then he was going to make it worth his while, if anyone knew what was enough power to overtake Fenris it was him. Even if it was a trap, Fenris was ready to either get lucky or perhaps get the chance to catch his master once and for all.  
Through the shadows, he saw a group of figures walking almost casually through Low Town, down the steps to the alienage. He lifted his head and shook out sleeping muscles, listening.  
As he waited he watched slave hunters pour into the clearing, making a formation around the trap. He could hardly see anything but what he heard.  
“That’s not the elf! Who is that?” A sharp female voice called from the square.  
“It doesn’t matter.” A response, “We were told to kill whoever enters the house.”  
The fight erupted and its noise carried up the steps to his place of hiding, he drew up sword and readied to aid. Before he could step out he spotted a captain baring the same armor as the hunters, waiting for the fight to abide. He was the man ordered to carry him back when the first hunters subdued him. Clever. Fenris made his way through the dark and found his forces, engaging them quickly.  
By the time he’d finished his fight with the small army Fenris turned his back to see the very troublesome lieutenant stumbling away to his captain.  
“I don’t know who you are friend but you’ve made a serious mistake coming here.” The captain hissed from the top of the stairs, “Lieutenant! I want everyone into the clearing, now!”  
Fenris followed behind as the lieutenant swayed towards the scene, his feet wobbling and blood pouring in clots from his back. Fenris had made that wound, he knew that it was fatal, the lieutenant wouldn’t last.  
“Captain,” He garbled. The legs buckled and he crumbled onto his knees and then to the ground.  
Fenris stepped out to meet the captain, unable to keep the disgust off his face.  
“Your men are dead.” He growled, stepping down the stairs despite the shocked ignorance on the captain’s face. “I suggest running back to your master while you can.”  
He stepped past the deflowered captain and faced the hired mercenaries Anso sent. At a glance he was surprised. They did not look like mercenaries.  
“You’re going nowhere slave.” The captain snarled, his hand coming down heavy on his shoulder. Fenris caught one glimpse of the fingers curling over his armor before the burn of lyrium raced up his arm. He turned and defensively knocked away the arm, taking hold of his shoulder and using his other fist to force into the man’s chest. The captain choked helplessly for a moment before Fenris pushed him away letting him fall.  
“I am not a slave.” He stated as he turned to his onlookers. He would not be introduced as one.  
He stepped away from the body, looking at his company as he flicked drops of blood from his hand. At times the filth was unpleasant.  
“I apologize.” He murmured, “When I asked Anso to provide a distraction I had no idea they’d be so… numerous.”  
There was a red haired warrior dressed in heavy armor, a dwarf, and another warrior dressed in lighter more agile armor. They all stood beside a man in front, who looked at Fenris with wide surprise or curiosity. He wasn’t sure what to make of him, he wore no robes but carried a battered staff.  
These were the people Anso sent? The people who succeeded?  
Aside from their own spotting of blood and ruffled appearance, they appeared unscathed.  
“I take it they were looking for you, then?” The one in front questioned, voice light and expression fair. Despite the height, above average even for a human, and the littering of light scars about his hands and arms, his voice and mannerism remained unthreatening.  
“Correct.” He nodded, “My name is Fenris. These were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister’s lost property, myself. They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.” The man smiled, unlike his companions who continued to stare at him with wiry surprise.  
“Hawke.” He nodded once, earning bemused eyeroll from the dwarf beside him. Fenris eyed him for a moment, taking him in. He had not yet encountered mercenaries so… amiable. 

\--

Upon reaching the quiet High Town estate he reconvened with Hawke and his three others.  
“No one has left the mansion, but I’ve heard nothing within. Danarius may know we’re here. I wouldn’t put it past him.” He informed him.  
“Who is this Danarius?” Hawke looked at him inquisitively, eyes still so surprisingly empty of harshness or shadow. Curious as if they were out to see a play.  
“He’s a magister of the Tevinter Imperium.” Fenris frowned at him, taking in the small scar nicking his cheekbone under his eye.  
“Oh, is that all?” The dwarf clipped, eyes finally relaying some of the severity of the situation as he scoffed bemusedly. “Nothing to worry about then.”  
“There he is a wealthy mage with great influence.” Fenris faced the dwarf, meeting his cunning eye. “Here he is but a man who sweats like any other when death comes for him.”  
The dwarf’s eyes sparkled for a moment and the rest of the group stared warily at him, quiet for a moment.  
“Well, what’s the worst that could happen?” Hawke quipped, nudging the dwarf.  
“Nothing like a prepared mage…” The other warrior muttered under his breath, looking displeased.  
“I do not fear death. That does not mean we should be reckless.” Fenris prepared to lead them into the estate. 

\--

The estate was empty and all of the pent up energy circling his chest was rushed out. He’d been ready to face him, to throw him from his back for good.  
He leaned against the outside wall wishing he could vent this hinging frustration faster, his hatred holding on. He’d thought he had a chance.  
Not only had he just missed his fleeing master, running from his own invention, but the trap was empty as well. No information.  
And disturbingly, the leader of the group he fought with was a mage. One of them could be right under his nose and he wouldn’t realize it until they cast their first spell, should they be accustomed to hiding. He couldn’t imagine why a mage would desire to hide, but Kirkwall was strange and he had not seen any of the proud magic of the imperium ways here.  
“It never ends.” Fenris muttered as Hawke approached from the estate. “I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and soul. And now I find myself in the company of yet another mage. I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner… Tell me then, what is it that you seek.”  
He faced Hawke with hard eyes, waiting for a trick or malicious intent. Even his companions couldn’t be trusted if they were to side with a mage.  
“Nothing.” Hawke frowned at him, his companions looking between them with their own softer frowns.  
“Yet somehow danger will undoubtedly find you.” He growled, standing off against them. His lyrium was still humming from the presence of Danarius’ magic and he had no temper to be anything but safe right now.  
“If you have a problem with my brother, you have a problem with me.” The warrior from the back spoke up, eyes equally hard and ready to challenge. He stepped forward to side Hawke. His name was Carver, as he’d heard him respond to in the fight inside. Looking between them now he should have realized that they were siblings, their builds similar and faces relative. Even their unnecessary height was matched. Perhaps that is why he didn’t see it before, Hawke wasn’t built like a mage. He had none of the rich, high command physique that defined the bodies of mages that branded his fixed memory. He was built like someone who had worked his whole life. He even fought as mixing his own magic with physical combat.  
Fenris had to give credit to Carver, and gage him properly. He’d seen his own fighting inside, seen his ability and was still ready to have a go right here it would seem. Hard nailed lot, they were.  
“I apologize.” He muttered, “I appear ungrateful to you… That’s far from the truth.”  
He faced Hawke, rescinding the outright distrust in his expression to give him fair gaze.  
“I did not find Danarius. But I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly lend it.” He lowered his voice to smooth over the edges of his aggression. He wouldn’t trust a mage but he wouldn’t deny a debt to a person either, certainly not one who helped him.  
“Your old master must want more than just a run away slave…” Hawke murmured, looking at him in interest. He seemed easily over his offense.  
“He doesn’t want me at all, just the markings on my skin.” He crossed his arms, “They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that he required of his guard. And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.” He couldn’t help the contempt in his words, the night had been long, his mood was foul.  
“Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.” Hawke smiled so suddenly, teeth gleaming as he laughed. So unperturbed by his dark language.  
Fenris’ eyes widened for a moment, stuttering a laugh.  
“I truthfully know nothing of the ritual that gave these markings… It was Danarius’ choice. One he now regrets.” He continued, getting past the irritable exasperated look Carver angled towards his brother.  
“Speaking of assistance, we’re planning an expedition that he we might need help with.” Hawke’s smile returned to a more neutral one.  
“Fair enough.” Fenris nodded, still mildly confused at him. “Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Danarius wants his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that I am at your disposal.”  
“Thank you.” Hawke smiled, giving a gaze to the dwarf who raised his eye brows in amusement to him.  
If he thought him a strange mercenary, he was just as strange a mage, nothing like his previous experiences. 

\--

Fenris could not understand Hawke nor his band of what he had quickly realize where not partners but friends.  
Hawke commonly recruited Fenris to join jobs that he picked up, all of which confused him.  
Each time that Hawke roused Fenris from his estate, bringing him stepping in a defensive position to the door ready for conflict, Hawke was grinning at the door with his friends behind him bantering oddly together. They would ask for him to join, casually awaiting his response.  
“What?” Fenris frowned, confusion lining his face as he braced against the stone frame of the estate door.  
“Would you come along?” Hawke waved his hand invitingly, the dwarf watching Fenris in knowing amusement.  
“To retrieve Javaris?” Fenris asked incredulously.  
“Come Fenris, we really could use the help and Hawke could really use someone new to test puns on.” Isabela tilted her head in dry amusement, her eyes cunning as they searched him.  
“We’ve heard there are Qunari involved and you’ve had experience with them, haven’t you?” Hawke reasoned, not bothering to defy the jests made at his affinity for jokes. Fenris stared dumbly for a moment, the morning sun only just lighting the air.  
“Yes.” He murmured, and acquiesced before the ridiculous inciting could continue. They followed him unbidden into the sitting room where they assured him there would be pay and proceeded to inspect the state of the room. He frowned at them before going to pick up the last of his armor.  
This pattern continued. Fenris should not have expected anything less from them, finding himself in surprise as the group continued to fall into aggressively dangerous situations only to quip jokes across the field as they battled. He was simply thrown by their friendly atmosphere with each other. They played cards with each other at the Hanged Man in their down time.  
He adjusted quickly enough. 

\--

Fenris found himself staring stilly across the table in the Hanged Man as Aveline admonished Hawke who only giggled like a child as Isabela slammed more drinks down onto the table.  
“Isabela, really, don’t you think he’s had enough?” Aveline scolded, across Merrill as Hawke only covered his face and laughed into his hands more. When he smiled his eyes lidded so that just the gleam of the light off his brown eyes could be seen through dark eyelashes.  
“Oh, Aveline, please don’t be boring.” Isabela grinned wickedly, laying her hands over Hawke’s shoulders.  
“Drink, drink, drink, drink!” Isabela chanted, joined by Varric and Merrill in amusement.  
Hawke picked up the liquor and lifted it to drink it all in one, barely able to still the shivering laughs in his shoulders as his friends cheered.  
“Your go, glowey.” Varric looked away from the smiling man as he wiped dripping whiskey from his mouth before it made it into his trimmed beard. At least he kept that groomed.  
“Glowey.” Fenris muttered, checking his cards.  
“Jesus, Garrett,” Carver grumbled, gesturing at him, “I’m not carrying your drunken arse home through Low Town like that, just for me to be the only sober recipient of mother’s bickering.”  
“Carver.” Hawke gave him a pitiful look, earning nothing more than an eye roll from his unsympathetic sibling.  
“Don’t worry, junior, he can crash here if he needs.” Varric spoke not looking up from the cards, “But only if he can’t walk in a straight line and recite the chant of light.”  
Hawke tumbled into more chuckles, throwing his head back as Carver sighed and shook his head at him.  
“Does he know the chant of light?” Fenris questioned under his breath dubiously.  
“I can certainly try.” Hawke lifted his head to face him, still looking bubbly and cheery under the grime of the tavern.  
Fenris won the second round of cards against Varric, the rest of the ensemble having given up on the game and leaving the two of them.  
“I’m sure Hawke can handle himself, even drunk off his ass.” Varric sighed, reshuffling cards and readying to redeem a loss against Fenris. “He made it out of the fifth blight, he’ll be fine.”  
“We had help, don’t give him credit he doesn’t deserve.” Carver clipped. Hawke threw a hand full of cards laying in front of him at Carver, telling him to stop his bitching as Carver swatted cards from his face.  
Unfortunately for Carver as Fenris glanced at the elder sibling from his eyes, he agreed with Varric after seeing the intimidating display of magic in more than a few fights. It surprised Fenris, because it was very distinctly unlike the magic of a trained Tevinter. All magic was somehow aligned with the caster, coming from the unique mana inside all of them, Fenris knew that. But Hawke’s magic was still different, untrained and unrefined. It was kept simple, unlike the complicated hexes and crippling spells that Fenris had seen bloodying the land of the Imperium, the magic springing from Hawke’s inconspicuous staves and calloused hands continued to remain raw and unrefined. As if he’d never been trained in the standard craft Fenris had witnessed. The magic remained strong, keep Fenris’ respect of the danger alive. He’d seen too many force spells paired back to back with fire and ice, blinding in speed, to disregard Hawke’s magic.  
Later, as their friends dwindled and left to their own keeps, Fenris sipped his own weak drink and watched the group. Hawke didn’t seem to want to go home.  
“Are you coming or not, Garrett?” Carver asked brusquely, standing and looking over his shoulder at him. He seemed reluctant to show that he would, in fact walk his inept sibling home.  
“I can’t leave now, Carver, I’ve still got half a drink left!” He lifted the half empty glass, as if he couldn’t kick it back in one go like earlier.  
“Don’t try going home alone, idiot, your aim is shit.” Carver growled, disguising his more concerned looks as he hesitated before leaving for the door.  
Fenris no longer played as he and Varric watched lazily from their chairs, Hawke watching Carver duck out of the doorway.  
“Was hoping he’d bump his head on the way out.” Hawke frowned, mouth breaking into a grin as if he couldn’t keep up the pretense of disappointment.  
Fenris was quiet as he listened to Varric and him chatting together lazily over the last of the liquor. They discussed recent jobs, commenting on the state of city and the increase of people willing to hire him for their needs. He said he couldn’t complain as it gave them better chance to reach their goals of finding wealth in the deep roads. They discussed the plan and so on.  
Varric stood and sighed heavily, “I’m off you two, there’s a couch in my room if you need it Hawke, don’t be doing anything reckless. I’m sure you can fit most of yourself on it, but it might not be wide enough.”  
“Are you calling me fat?” He frowned, his words a little longer with his intoxication as he tipped his head up at Varric who was only so much taller than him when he stood.  
“Perish the thought.” Varric winked at Hawke, earning another delighted smile. “I’ll have another round next time, broody.” He waved to Fenris who finished gathering the cards in order neatly. He nodded primly, leaned against the arm rest of his rickety wooden chair.  
Varric disappeared and Hawke’s unbridled attention was returned to him, face still open and kind. It still occurred strangely to Fenris, for someone who was very constantly throwing himself into the fray, surrounding himself with the guard captain, a tiny blood mage, a rather obscure merchant, and a pirate captain, he really seemed rather carefree about the whole thing. As if he’d just ended up here.  
“D’you think we can play a round?” Hawke mentioned and Fenris thought it would be disrespectful if he left him alone now.  
“If you’d like.” He nodded, to which Hawke stood from his chair for a moment drawing Fenris’ wide eyes at the clumsy movement. He shifted to the chair next to him at the corner, smiling politely as Fenris blinked and resumed shuffling the deck.  
Playing a round of Wicked Grace with a mage…  
Sometimes he forgot, in the offhand moments that he was left alone with him, that he could let his guard down and perhaps be caught off guard and over powered by him. Somehow, he brushed the thought aside when he looked up from the cards at the man with his cheek propped on his hand and his elbow leaned against the table.  
Fenris dealt the cards and began the game, watching his terribly expressive face as he frowned and smiled at his cards in his hand, efficiently giving away his positions.  
“You took a job today, did you not?” Fenris murmured over the cards.  
“Yes,” Hawke lay a card down, drawing out the word, “We did, got something tomorrow, too.”  
“Unscathed, this time, hm?” He spoke quietly, his low voice rumbling as he lay another card down.  
“Damnit!” Hawke laughed, playing another card. “Can’t tell what you’re playing, not even a twitch, your face, you know that?”  
“I… didn’t notice.” He responded, surprised. Hawke huffed amusedly, lowering his head back to his hand and waiting as Fenris checked his cards again. He blinked slowly and his eyes moved over him and his hands, looking at the lyrium. “Yeah, the job wasn’t too rough. Just looking for some mages that’re… running off from the chantry again.” He rubbed his face, his words slow with calm.  
“You didn’t want help for it?” Fenris frowned while Hawke checked his cards.  
“I…” He checked all of his cards again, indicating an unfavorable hand. “I didn’t go alone, I brought Carver and Varric, just thought you’d rather stay at home – or mansion.”  
He lay down his card, surprising Fenris with a brilliant turn.  
“Tomorrow?” He looked up at the rest of the tavern, quiet and unusually empty, turning his gaze back to Hawke.  
“Thought I’d go with Varric, don’t really need help.” He looked up from his cards, meeting Fenris’ gaze again. He had no aversion to eye contact, so he had to remind himself to hold steady gaze when they talked and Hawke decided to look directly at him for lengths of time. “S’not really a job. I don’t mind if you’d like to come but it’s meeting with a mage so I didn’t think you’d fancy.”  
Meeting with a mage – Fenris remembered the business hours discussing the fate of some poor slave to be butchered for blood magic. He blinked and returned his thoughts to this mage, who he knew wasn’t of that nature.  
“That’s why I wasn’t called on today?” Fenris questioned, tilting his chin down but not looking away from Hawke who seemed to forget the cards.  
“Well, I don’t want you to be having a… not fun time, I suppose. No reason bringing you along to help mages and all.”  
“I see.” Fenris’ brow furrowed, “Your missions are considered fun, are they?”  
Hawke smiled and blinked as he breathed out, “Well, they have to be, otherwise we’d be miserable, Carver and I.”  
“So, you… helped the mages from the chantry?” Fenris wondered what had occurred with them that Hawke assumed he couldn’t enjoy.  
“I went to find them and see what had driven them off,” Hawke looked down at his lined hands again, “I didn’t know what I’d find, and I know you’re uncomfortable around blood mages – so is everyone, mostly – and I didn’t know what they were doing so I thought it best leave you to more comfortable places.” He returned his honey brown eyes to him.  
“And when you found them?” He frowned.  
“No sacrifices,” Hawke smiled, “Just more runaways. The Kirkwall chantry’s been bit strict these last years.”  
“What did you do?”  
“I spoke with them for a bit and… listened and I just let them go.” Fenris withheld any distaste from his features.  
“Weren’t you hired to bring them back?”  
“Yes,” Hawke sighed, “but not by an official or I wouldn’t have taken the job. Mixing with them can make me a target and that’s not good… It was a mother and her sister, looking for one of theirs. So, I was able to not take the money and just decline the job more easily.” He sipped more drink from his glass, absent mindedly.  
“You allowed them to leave and then… just didn’t take the money.”  
“I went back to her and let her know what happened, told her where her child went.”  
“Why didn’t you just bring them back, you took the job?”  
“Well… I took the job because someone was looking for a family member and offering money. That’s a far cry from tangling with Qunari, of course, and it offered pay. So… but, what was I to do, drag them to the chantry steps against their will?”  
Fenris frowned, “You must have known there would be some resistance.”  
“Yes, but I’m not an apostate hunter.” He murmured quietly, “It’s not my job to force people… who aren’t doing anything but running away back to a life they don’t want.”  
Fenris looked away, unable to hold eye contact. He’d never wanted to recoil from a description of a mage’s circumstance which mirrored his own before. Still, it must be different.  
“I’m an apostate myself,” Hawke looked down at his cards on the table, face up for him to see, trailing his finger across them. “I wasn’t… raised like they are here… or anywhere, I suppose. Just doesn’t seem right for me to make that decision, that’s not my choice. I’m just… from Lothering.” He smiled quietly.  
Fenris was ready to listen to more, for the first time with a person of magic.  
But he yawned behind a wide hand and laughed fuzzily, still tipsy and sat up straighter.  
“I should go home, or I’m not going to want to wake up tomorrow.” He made to push from the table, “Thanks for the game.”  
Fenris found his chest synching tightly as Hawke stood heavily to leave, finding somehow without his allowance, a refuse to allow this stumbling mess to try the moderately safe Low Town at night no matter how brief the walk. A mage surely could handle himself. Fenris had been subjugated to many a drunken mage in Tevinter who had kept plenty of power in their state. Still, he couldn’t quell the resistance, he hadn’t even created it of his own will. Yet here they were, and Fenris wasn’t going to stop himself.  
“You’re not staying here?” Hawke searched blearily for his staff, finding it leaned carelessly against the other end of the table.  
“I’ve tried Varric’s couch, it always makes my back ache.” He grumbled, rubbing is eyes.  
“It’s dangerous…” Fenris stood before he could walk towards the night.  
“I’ll be fine,” He shrugged, “Or I’ll be escorted.”  
Hawke grinned at him until he looked away testily and lifted his sword onto his back, making his way to his side as they left.  
The night air was cool, still late summer and the night sky over head was clear. Hawke’s gate was unsteady but he kept a pleased tilt to his mouth as they passed through the dark streets. Fenris didn’t stare or comment on his state, unwittingly preserving his respect.  
“Ah, look.” He pointed up, pausing with a hand wrapped around his staff. As long as it was it only made it to his shoulder. “The stars are out.”  
“They’re always out.” Fenris mumbled, looking up to see the pinpricks before returning his stare to him.  
“Of course, but sometimes I can’t see them here. You know, in the city.” He stayed paused for a few more moments until he continued on, looking about the Low Town streets as if he didn’t have any care.  
Fenris didn’t respond for a few moments, watching him as he strode every few paces glancing at the sky.  
“Ferelden was different?” Fenris asked quietly, wondering at the past circumstances that brought up this person.  
“Yes.” Hawke hummed, “All of it, yeah, but I mean Lothering, that’s where I lived most.”  
“You moved around?”  
“Yeah, of course.” He nodded, “Father moved us all over, little towns. But Lothering was where we stopped once Bethany and I were better at keeping covered. So no one knew we were mages.”  
He murmured more clearly, the walk making his head sober. Fenris thought that he would talk about this no matter his state, but that it was himself that needed the pretense of drink to ask the questions.  
“Why didn’t your father want them to take you to a chantry?” Hawke frowned at this, as if thinking of he and his sister in that way.  
“He taught us everything we needed.” He reflected memories in his eyes, “Well, he was patient. Taught us how to be careful and how to control our dreams of the Fade. He was an example. We only wanted to be what he taught us, I can’t imagine any other way… I guess he just didn’t want us raised away from the family. Or, he was also an apostate and didn’t want to draw attention. I don’t know.” He shrugged.  
“You lived in Lothering until the blight, with him?” He wondered, Hawke’s expression lowered with the memories and he nodded, gate slow, quiet for a moment.  
“We lived in Lothering until the blight, but he was gone before it came.” His voice remained steadier than Fenris felt should be, only hushed with the weight of his memory.  
“He died…” Fenris’ brow furrowed, remembering bits of conversation he’d uncovered.  
“Yes.” Hawke nodded once. They walked in silence for a minute. “It was just Mother and the twins, then.”  
Fenris looked at his face, able to see so much.  
“And I always took Carver and Bethany outside to see how many constellations they could find before bed time.” He smiled finally, looking up. “Because in Ferelden there were always clear skies.”  
“Oh.” Fenris mumbled under his breath.  
“Do you ever think of Seheron?” Hawke looked back down to him, “You said it’s where they told you were from.”  
“I…” Fenris’ mouth opened, unsure of what to say of his past. “I don’t think of it. It wasn’t my home. I don’t remember it in childhood, I suppose.”  
“It seems like a warm place.” Hawke hummed, smiling to him kindly. And Fenris didn’t take offense, just meeting his eyes softly.  
“You seem happy here.” Fenris murmured after a pleasant Hawke strolled a few more steps. “Or… you don’t wish you could return to Lothering?”  
“Lothering isn’t there anymore,” He gave a gentle look to him, “Even if I wanted to return. But anyways, I don’t mind Kirkwall for now. Things are simple, at least. Just… try to make money for mother and try not to be too painfully obvious about hiding from the chantry. I have good friends here. And there’s drinks. I’m here now. Just here, it’s nice for me.”  
He looked back up at the stars from between the ragged Low Town spires, building roofs sagging, and Fenris looked up as well. Next to him, Hawke ambled in no rush to get home or any worry of assailants, seeming to accept the place that he was here and now. Regardless of what was lost.  
How could a farm boy from Ferelden, who still rolled around with his dog happily, be so clearly the man before him who seemed to shine bright through the dust of the Kirkwall filth and his own past; and yet he planned expeditions into the deep roads and hid virile magic under the noses of the Kirkwall Templars who would sooner kill every mage in the Free Marches than allow an uprising of the likes in Tevinter.  
For the first time, unbidden, he imagined it would be terrible for someone like Hawke to be locked away in the Chantry.  
He didn’t think that would come to pass any time soon, however. And it left him to mull over the unsettling comfort with which he settled with the guileless mage beside him. 

\--

Fenris was pleased to be out of Dark Town, although bringing a piece of it’s resident along with them was a negative. Still, it was nice to be away from the site of oppression. The history of slave misery was strong in Fenris’ mind, down in the sewers.  
The one blonde mage who accompanied them was a strong reminder as well.  
Fenris walked behind Hawke, Varric, Carver and Isabela. Varric and Carver because they all wanted to help gather coin for the expedition, Isabela because she enjoyed traipsing along the Wounded Coast.  
The mage for the sake of healing, as there would be mages in their mission.  
Anders. Fenris couldn’t help feeling flighty around him, his lyrium always prickled uncomfortably near his magic. Personally, though it stayed in the back of his thoughts, he preferred the reaction of his lyrium to Hawke’s magic over Anders or, for that matter, any other’s he’d encountered.  
With most mages he only noticed his lyrium when the caster was exercising strong magic, the waves reaching his skin. But, unfortunately, as Anders and Hawke were both rather powerful and… virile mages which he was in contact with regularly, he wasn’t desensitizing to them quite yet.  
Anders’ blonde hair shifted in the salted wind from the sea as they walked, the friends chattering quietly. The apostate had given maps to the Deep Roads to Varric and Bartrand, acquired in his time with the Grey Wardens which he managed to escape.  
Also, as it turned out, he harbored a demon in his body. Or a spirit of Justice, as it were. Either way it didn’t matter when Fenris felt the perversion of both their magics in his lyrium when Anders became angered.  
Aveline had tipped them off about a bounty for some slavers exporting elves and some humans on the coast, expected to be led by a few mages.  
“I think the caravan should be within range soon,” Hawke informed the group, “we should be looking out.”  
“I think I’ll be less careful about fatal wounds, for this one.” Varric chuckled grimly, grinning. Hawke smiled in return.  
“This is certainly a more wholesome mission, for you.” Anders chipped in, “I almost feel like a civil defender.”  
Fenris looked away to refrain from making his grimace more noticeable. He had the strong urge to kill the slavers on his own.  
“Add in a boat and a bunch of bureaucratic Orlesian sailors and it will be just like old times,” Isabela hummed, smooth voice rasping pleasantly over the air. “I can even smell the salt water.”  
“Old times?” Carver chipped in curiously.  
“You haven’t heard how I lost my ship?” Isabela’s voice darkened with the irritated memory.  
“I heard it was a storm.” He looked at her, brow creasing.  
“I didn’t sail into a storm for fun, darling.” She looked into the sea, “I just figured the Orlesians weren’t of the right steel to follow me. They weren’t pleased with my crusade on their cargo ship full of slaves.”  
Fenris had heard this story and saw the raised eyebrows from Carver who looked impressed with it.  
When he’d asked her, she was reluctant to take credit for doing something right.  
A caravan full of slaves freed and five dead mages, fifteen footmen later and they were making their way back to Kirkwall, smelling of blood.  
Fenris wiped the sticky red from his face, frowning as he tried to keep it out of his white hair. It always meant a washing if it stuck in his hair. Hawke smiled at him, catching his eye after a vigorous cleaning of his cheek. Fenris looked away instinctually, avoiding that smile.  
In battle Hawke watched all of them, seeming to be focused on aiding his allies and deflecting blows they couldn’t counter when they most needed it. Fenris was becoming used to his vibrating magic and how it molded around him and the others, timed perfectly and striking hard.  
Hawke walked next to him and Carver while Varric, Anders, and Isabela followed.  
“You did impressively.” Hawke spoke, his tone always gentle and of a volume that was just loud enough to be heard easily by his listener.  
“Thank you.” Fenris nodded curtly, standing a little straighter under scrutiny. He was still prone to withdraw when Hawke spoke to him; he held himself softly but his body still looked like dormant power next him. And he was still a mage… These thoughts held with him.  
“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone fight quite like you, you’re never really out of your depth, are you?” Hawke smiled at him, “You rather seemed to be enjoying yourself.”  
Fenris opened his mouth mutely for a moment, feeling a bit flattered, though Carver seemed to find it ordinary.  
“I don’t relish battle.” The elf replied, “But it is no qualm to me, killing slavers.”  
“Anyone can see that.” He laughed, earning a bit of an eyeroll from his brother.  
“You know, Fenris, I have a tattoo.” Carver looked to him.  
“You have a what?” He returned, warily.  
“A tattoo. A lot of us got them before Ostagar. It’s a mabari. For strength.” He grinned.  
“Does it curse you with the ability to reach into a man and tear out his insides?” Fenris raised a look to him, earning a snort from one of their companions.  
“Uh. I can make it bark.” He offered.  
“Please don’t.” Fenris replied. Hawke looked up at the sky in an interesting expression, catching his attention.  
“Yes, refrain.” Anders laughed.  
“Seconded.” Varric.  
“Rather see it wag.” Isabela threw in, getting a frown from Carver.  
Hawke sighed greatly.

\--

Fenris watched the scene of his companions devolve into madness.  
Nights at the Hanged Man were never without threat of madness, however, he’d seen plenty of nights pass quietly with nothing more than fights of Wicked Grace duels.  
Tonight was not to be that kind.  
Most of their friends had assembled, even the little witch, who looked strangely at home in the yelling and squabbling of the bar. She always just avoided a jostled body, leaning her slight body out of the way. Fenris would find her beautiful if it weren’t for the oddly out of place blood magic she kept.  
“Throw that card down again!” Hawke yelled, teeth gleaming from his wide smile. “Again!”  
Anders leaned away, standing to avoid the mayhem as Carver threw an arm across Hawke in trepidation, both of them staring intensely at Varric. Merrill sat with her own cards held in her thin fingers against her chest. The racket from the other drinkers in the bar boomed around them as Hawke and Carver and Aveline stood still, mouths and eyes open in excitement.  
Fenris crossed his arms, leaning back warily. Hawke and Carver were large men, Aveline was nearly as tall as them and every bit as solid.  
Varric dropped the card face up, resulting in cacophonous uproar from Carver and Hawke. Carver’s fist thrown up, well defined muscles coiled as he howled in some kind of defeat. Hawke covered his face and made a long and loud moan of losing, Aveline turning and throwing her head back in disbelief. Anders ran a hand over his face and into his hair, eyes wide with bland shock.  
“No.” Carver cried to the ceiling. Isabela cackled maniacally, finding it all hilarious. Hawke continued to smash his face into his hands, Aveline showing various states of anger.  
Fenris wasn’t definitively sure what was happening in the game, why the card had been devastating. Which said something significant because he knew the game well. He had played out of the game a while ago, seeing the disintegration of calm before it came on.  
Their drunkenness was creating rules, for tonight.  
Fenris looked away to survey his surroundings and by the time he looked back there was a wrestle occurring on the table. Anders was too thin to join in, his obsessive work keeping him gaunt at times. Merrill, shockingly, remained in her seat through the chaos. Varric was jostling through them. Aveline was practically arm wrestling the table. Fenris always liked her. Hawke and Carver were hidden somewhere in the mess. Isabela was actually on top of the table, her bare legs keeping steady on the moving plane like they did on the deck of a ship, her dark body shining in the warm light as she reached into the mass of bodies. She smiled wildly, jewels swinging over her breasts, dark hair flying around her bandana.  
Fenris stood up, backing away instinctively to retain control on the situation. Anders watched with an open mouth as the cards buried under the wrestle flew and drinks fell from the table top, sloshing.  
The yelling from their pile was considerable. Merrill’s wide eyes staring, her narrow shoulders drawn up in surprise.  
“Fucking-!” One of the brothers from the pile barked out.  
Fenris leaned against the wall and watched in curious awe. The rest of the bar was in a state as well but not quite wrestling each other over a pile of cards.  
Hawke wriggled roughly and slipped out of the bodies, hair sticking up all over and eyes wide, face flushed as he stumbled out of the throng backing up. The rest of the pile turned for him, lifting their heads in time to see him back into a drunken patron behind him.  
The man pushed him roughly, throwing him back only to be caught in time by Anders.  
“Fucking Ferelden dogs.” The drinker spat him, actually spitting on the ground to him. Carver lifted his head like a mabari looking at the drunkard. Isabela stilled on the table, watching as Aveline squared her shoulders to him.  
“Oh, I always said we should spend our nights at the Blooming Rose.” Isabela sighed, sliding a hand around her belt towards a dagger.  
Another drunkard who flanked the first threw a glass of empty wine Garret, who raised his arm to protect himself quickly. The fight fell into chaos so quickly.  
Carver lunged with hard fists and Aveline, who didn’t approve of petty squabbles or bar fights, dove in after him without too much hesitation. Perhaps the alcohol was to blame. Varric disappeared surprisingly quickly and Isabela leapt from the table into the throng as multiple strangers fell into the fight. People kind of just… appeared. Fenris thought they were all lucky that they didn’t approve of killing innocent people, because they’d just picked a fight with a rather capable team.  
Anders began to back into the shadows and cast defensive spells, knocking people back from the Hawkes and Aveline and Isabela. Fenris was in no way inclined to join them, watching for anything dangerous.  
Glasses flew, chairs broke, the bar took it’s damage.  
The fight did devolve to danger, a dagger being drawn – aside from Isabela’s – a broken bottle being turned against one of theirs. Fenris saw the danger approaching Carver quickly from behind, leaping in to avoid a painful puncture and blood. He left his sword on his back, keeping his size compact as he swung into the fight and blocked the blow, sending the man to the ground. He pushed Carver back and shoved him towards the door. He was heavy but Fenris handled his weight easily.  
Carver didn’t go easily, turning back with blood on his face, not too perturbed by it either, looking for the other one. Fenris looked as well, finding Hawke.  
He reached before Carver could get into the space, wrapping an arm around Hawke’s body and dragging him out. His eyes were bewildered as he was thrown towards Carver who got a hold of Aveline and reached for Merrill while Anders escaped quickly. The remaining left in the fight continued on without their targets.  
Fenris kept a steel hand on Hawke as he pulled him to the door along with the others. They fell out into the cool night and onto the street, still stumbling.  
“Shit.” Hawke sputtered, finding his bearings. They put the street between them and the Hanged Man, wiping bloody noses. Fenris looked at Hawke, who hadn’t cast a single spell in the fight, sniffling a bit of blood. He hadn’t looked particularly engaged in throwing punches either, being thrown around.  
“Where is Isabela?” Hawke frowned, lifting his head.  
“I’m sure she’s fine.” Merrill’s voice curled in content.  
“Here!” Isabela banged out of the door, a swagger in her stumble and a wicked smile. “Good brawl, wasn’t it?”  
Hawke rolled his eyes, Carver frowning, “No, it wasn’t!”  
“Well, no one wanted to come to the Blooming Rose, I did offer.” She put a hand on her hip, head tilting.  
The moon gleamed down, full tonight, on them as a they smiled regardless.  
“I should probably go to bed now, I think.” Merrill chimed after the breath of pause.  
“I’ll walk you.” Carver rubbed his shoulder setting off with her after a wave.  
“I’m getting out of here before any of those idiots check their pockets.” Isabela winked, slinking off.  
“I’m going home.” Anders chipped in.  
“Do you need escorting?” Aveline said.  
“Do I seem like I need escorting to you?” His eyes questioned incredulously.  
“You are getting thin.” She crossed her arms.  
“Fortunately, I’m not a warrior, then.” He smiled, “Thank you, guard captain, anyways.”  
He set off to Dark Town and Aveline said her goodbyes to Hawke and Fenris, offering the same before leaving.  
Fenris turned to Hawke, who looked thoroughly ruffled and used to it.  
“Walk me home?” He smiled.  
“You need walking home?” Merrill only needed it because she would probably question her attacker too much before actually defending herself.  
“Of course! Who else am I to walk with?”  
Fenris ended up nodding and following him as they wandered back to Gamlen’s. Hawke laughed a lot and listened to everything he said. When they got home he sighed happily at the steps and he lamented how good it would be to find bed. Fenris imagined the sight, imagining it would be.  
“Do you notice how nice it is to be free? Sometimes?” Hawke mumbled, looking up at the sky again, sighing.  
“Yes.” Fenris murmured, although he lived with a wolf at his back, “Of course.”  
“Right.” Hawke looked to him. His eyes widened with casual wonder. “Your lyrium.”  
He looked down at his arm, his tattoos still dormant and resting comfortably in his skin.  
“Yes?” He rumbled.  
“They look bright out here.” Fenris was glad the moonlight was pale enough to hide the blood in his face, unsure how to respond.  
“I’m tired.” Hawke murmured so quietly and Fenris ushered him up the stairs to his door. Bidding him goodnight, Hawke waiting until he was down the steps to shut the door.  
He had no experience with these types of people. They were so embroiled within the rough of the world. A pirate, a blood mage, two apostates, one merchant who still wouldn’t detail his mysterious work.  
But, as Fenris walked home under the moon, looking up occasionally, he found them all to be careless in the moment.  
He always intended to move on, eventually, find somewhere else or perhaps bait Danarius. But every day there was some new venture Hawke called him on, every night a new romp that they called him out to. Each time they brought him along, he forgot a little more about trying to leave. 

\--

Weeks of reckless abandon passed, accurately denoted by Varric to be more reckless than abandon. Hawke was determined to make money that would alleviate his mother, to give her what they all knew she wanted. Fenris didn’t fully understand, but he didn’t remember having a mother or a family. Perhaps he didn’t, slavery wasn’t in the business of holistic families.  
Fenris drank wine in his room, leaning back in a breaking chair to look up at the roof. Through the stone and wooden banisters was a break where moonlight could stream in and he could see out to the sky. He appreciated the openness and had no desire to mend a magister’s stolen mansion. He didn’t mind letting it crumble while he waited for him to come back to it.  
The moon was waning tonight, leaving only the stars to drift above. Just as Fenris debated climbing onto the roof to see how the pale stone of High Town shone in the night, the sound of the door opening and closing loudly echoed inside. Fenris didn’t set elaborate traps anymore, but still listened to hear the loud footsteps as they rounded the remnants of traps from his first months in Kirkwall.  
He stayed still, listening as the intruder approached. He didn’t put down his wine, sure that he was in no danger. The door swung open to reveal a Hawke who ducked through the threshold.  
“Hey.” He smiled, voice gentle in the silent dark.  
“Hello.” Fenris looked him over before retrieving his gaze and drinking.  
“It’s quite dark in here.” Hawke frowned, glancing at the empty fire place and then up to the dilapidated sky light.  
“Yes.” He nodded, looking at him again to watch his movements in interest.  
“You don’t want a fire?”  
“Saving the wood for winter…” Fenris frowned petulantly, “I hear its rather cold in Kirkwall.”  
Hawke smiled, picking up a small bench and setting it next to his chair to sit with him.  
“It’s not too bad, perhaps drafty…” He looked up humorously at the gap in the ceiling. “Will that need fixing?” He asked, knowing it would be lucrative to fix anyways.  
“I won’t have anyone mending this place.” Fenris growled warningly, earning a quiet laugh from his companion.  
“Alright, alright.” Hawke murmured, “Don’t tell mother, then, she’ll be a fit.”  
“Alright.” He nodded seriously, meeting Hawke’s gaze. “Did you want wine?”  
“If you’re offering.” Fenris reached an arm to the side of the chair, handing him an unopened bottle.  
“Do you keep several bottles beside you at all times?” Hawke laughed, straining briefly and pulling the cork.  
“Of course.” Fenris mutters kindly.  
“Well,” Hawke settled and took a sip. “we’ve gathered enough coin for the expedition and maps to get us an entrance. The tunnels should be safer after the blight.”  
The blight that drove the Hawkes from their home. Fenris frowned at the thought.  
“Those missions payed off, then.” Fenris hummed.  
“Yes.” He nodded, “It’s been nice to keep the money we make instead of shelling it off for debts.”  
Fenris was quiet. “The Qunari are coming to know you well. You should be careful about making connections, the Templars aren’t blind, they’ll hear of you eventually.”  
“I suppose.” He huffed and leaned his head back to look at the stars, not minding the darkness. “If the Qunari start to pester the Knight Commander I don’t think I’ll be first on her list of worries.”  
Fenris frowned at his carelessness.  
“When are you departing for the Deep Roads?”  
“Two days.” He lifted his head to face him, “I was making sure I got chance to see you before I left.”  
“Do you visit all of your friends before expeditions to holes in the earth?” He raised a brow. Hawke smiled widely, laughing at him.  
“No, of course not, they don’t keep wine for their guests.” Fenris drank his bottle.  
“Neither do I, you should know.” He rumbled, Hawke looked to him with interest.  
“Is that so?” He grinned.  
“Well, I think Donnic has had a glass or two, if I think about it…” He chuckled.  
“And I thought I was the only one.” He almost was, though. Of the others who visited Fenris for various reasons, Donnic for cards and Isabela for any number of reasons, Hawke’s visits always went differently and contained more wine.  
“Are you really going into the Deep Roads for money?” Fenris grumbled, “It is… dangerous, even after the blight. The darkspawn are not to be under estimated.”  
Hawke smiled half-heartedly, “I’m not very afraid of danger, if you haven’t noticed.”  
He was quiet for a while and Fenris watched him thinking. These moments of quiet always occurred so suddenly and captured his attention, making him calm.  
“I don’t care about the money, or moving to High Town and making a home in some estate under someone else’s surname… But it would give my mother peace.”  
“You can’t be expected to pillage the Deep Roads for your mother’s sake, Hawke.” He growled incredulously.  
“It won’t be fatal, Fenris, I’ve faced worse.” He reassured, “And it’s worth it… She’s lost a lot, Leandra.”  
Hawke’s expression remained so calm and simple even as he murmured, “First she lost father and then we failed Bethany. She told us to protect her, to protect each other, of course. But she told me to protect the twins, always. And I did, I always looked out for them. If I can give her a home and get her out of poverty… back to where she was before she met father... I don’t know, it might help her move on.”  
Fenris thought it brought a great understanding over the reason for much of what Hawke did. Despite that he seemed to find his place doing such odd jobs and being a bit reckless, the barren truth of his guilt seemed to become loud and unobscured suddenly.  
He wanted to open his mouth and say Bethany’s death wasn’t his fault. But his throat seemed closed.  
“Leandra… was a noble before she met your father, then?” He murmured lowly.  
“Yes.” Hawke sighed heavily, huffing out the guilty air in his lungs. “Malcom Hawke was my father’s name and he ran off with mother. She went with him, despite his magic. And they fled to Ferelden.”  
“She didn’t approve of magic?” He frowned.  
“Her parents didn’t.” He drank, “They weren’t Templars or anything, but they weren’t about to let her marry a mage into the family. An apostate for that matter, and a poor one.”  
“Oh.” He breathed, imagining the father of the two siblings, stealing into High Town to chase after Leandra.  
“She loved him, though.” Hawke whispered, “That much was obvious. She hated moving around and hiding from the Chantry, but she loved father and all of us, magic and all.”  
“I can’t imagine… being in that position.”  
“I’m sure you can’t.” He smiled, “She was a wild woman. Still made of steel.” He ran a hand over his face, looking a bit tired.  
“I’m sorry that she lost him.” He murmured quietly, and he thought that perhaps he was true in his words.  
“I am, too.” He looked at the sky, “That’s why I have to give her something. I already lost one of her children.”  
Fenris was quiet while the silence of the night hummed between them under the stars.  
“Be careful when you go under, Hawke.” He rumbled, looking at him. Hawke looked down at him.  
“I will be.” He nodded, honestly.  
“Thank you.”  
Fenris hoped against normality, that Hawke’s magic was strong on his mission.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke’s return was met with success and tension.  
Fenris knew the moment he saw him, a day after his return from the roads. He wanted to be sure he’d had time to recoup.  
Hawke’s careless expression, or at least the face of it, was misplaced. His eyes were darker, and there missed a second Hawke son. Fenris feared the worst, but Hawke breached the wall before he could get to it.  
“Carver was tainted.” He said to him, “The Grey Wardens took him. He’ll be fine.”  
“I’m glad he’s not hurt.” He offered, unsure of this seriousness in him.  
“Yes.” Hawke nodded, “As am I.”  
And they let it go, watching as the vast sum of money from the underground funded Leandra’s return to her estate. Hawke looked strange walking home at night to High Town, but it offered more walks home together. The estate was repaired and Leandra reclaimed it nobly. It brought more attention to Hawke and Fenris unknowingly drew nearer and payed more attention to the public knowledge of his status as a mage.  
Things were one person quieter without Carver. 

\--

Fenris followed behind Hawke as they walked through High Town.  
“I really wish Varric was at the Hanged Man, I could use a drink.” Hawke muttered, adjusting the battered staff on his back. He was going to have to replace it eventually. He certainly had the money to do it.  
Fenris was quiet, the chilling wind flowing from behind them.  
“The Qunari are disquieted.” Fenris murmured to him. They called on Hawke, the Viscount and Arishok both of them speaking of rising tension between them to Hawke.  
“I know.” Hawke murmured, breathing out. His eyes serious. “I don’t know how to resolve it… We’ll get something… I just don’t know.”  
“The Arishok will not abide by standards that you will expect, Hawke.” Fenris murmured lowly.  
Hawke looked to him uncertainly.  
“You need to be careful.” He murmured.  
“What do you mean.” Hawke spoke helplessly, trying to deny his implications.  
“I mean that the Arishok will come to his own solution eventually. Any solution you will have won’t matter.”  
Hawke sighed looking away at the Amell estate as they approached. He looked at it reproachfully.  
“I have wine if you’re truly interested.” Fenris offered quietly. Hawke looked at him thankfully and veered away from home.  
Fenris supposed that he didn’t want to go home, without the twins and only his mother who still held onto their absence. Perhaps that’s why he continued to wait on the Viscount and the Qunari, needless of any coin they could offer him. He always aided them. 

\--

Fenris reclined in the darkness, head tilted back against the chair he sat in to look up through the hole in the roof to see the stars. The colder it got, the clearer the skies seemed to become. He didn’t do brilliantly with cold, now his leanly muscled arms crimped with bumps and tightened for warmth. He watched a cloud pass, soft lit from the moon, across the stars.  
“I got the wine.” Hawke spoke and Fenris lifted his head to look at him. It was an equal sight. Perhaps in some time, better.  
Hawke sat the wine down on a hobbled table next to him. He touched the back of his fingers to Fenris’ dark skin, sliding down along the muscle.  
“You’re getting cold.” He frowned, concerned. Fenris’ pretty face returned the creased brow and pouting frown.  
“I’m fine.” He hummed.  
“Says the Seheron.” Hawke gave him a rather flat look of one who is not fooled. Fenris frowned averted his eyes, pale in the low light, their green another reminder of the birthplace he didn’t remember.  
Hawke turned to the fire and he watched from his seat for a while as he searched for a way to light the fire.  
He reminded Fenris of the Ferelden boy now as he knelt and searched patiently for a starter, “These high town estates usually have lighters.”  
“This one belonged to a mage, Hawke.” Fenris’ low voice rolled, reclined like a lupine king.  
“Oh.” He hushed, pausing and reaching forward to bring warm energy to light in the hearth.  
Fenris remembered the strangeness of his situation, his instincts suddenly kicking forward and bring surreal discomfort. Hawke had his back turned on him, trusting him. Fenris didn’t even mind turning his own back anymore, here he’d just watched a mage light the fire in his hearth. And he was going to sit right here and sip drinks with Hawke until they were tired enough, because that’s what was natural.  
Natural had never been so strange and still thoughtless.  
He shook the thoughts gingerly from his mind, his body loosening. This wasn’t a magister, and he was starting to think it very wrong for treating him as one.  
The fire warmed his bare feet. 

\--

In the protection of his bed, they lay together and Hawke traced the lyrium in his skin. Fenris’ body lay still while the soft white of the lyrium followed beneath his skin Hawke’s finger, like fish following a finger drawn along the surface of water.  
Hawke told him that he couldn’t believe the odds of luck. Fenris listened, after losing father and home and sister and brother, as Hawke told him how lucky he was that Fenris was breathing between the sheets of his bed at his side. After everything that it took to get from the start to this bed in Kirkwall, how he couldn’t believe that here he lay hushed and living.  
Fenris had never thought too viscerally about his vitality, but now with his pulse beating so close to his, he wondered about just the same. How he’d made it past every one of those moments.  
He wondered the same about Hawke, then. Wondering if they would make it through whatever this city would put on Hawke’s shoulders, after everything that had come before.  
How had they made from all the way across Ferelden and Seheron, he let the thought glide away. 

\--

“Is there something you want, Anders?” He growled, settling his crawling skin at the lack of control he felt around this mage.  
“You really don’t have the temperament for a slave.” Anders chirped and Fenris saw the shifted glances from their companions.  
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He looked at him.  
“I’m just wondering how your master didn’t kill you.” He felt a familiar stir of hatred but didn’t act on it.  
“How have the Templars not killed you?” He tipped his head, cold eyes sharp with their bite.  
“Fair.” Isabella laughed.  
“I’m charming.” Anders fussed. 

\--

_“Did you ever think about killing yourself?”_  
_“I could ask you the same thing.” He’d heard about the struggled attempts to escape the circle. He’d seen how thin he could get._  
_“I’m serious. To get out of slavery, to escape Danarius… don’t tell me you never thought about it.”_  
_“I did not.” He looked away. “To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.”_  
_“You… believe that?” Silence._  
_“I try to. Some things must be worse than slavery.”_  
_“Some things are worse than death.” Came the murmur of the apostate._

\--

Fenris suffered for leaving that night. He couldn’t stop the flashes of memory that reached him.  
He remembered, every time he looked to Hawke’s body as it called to him across empty space, his face, he remembered the burn of memory and how it had crippled him.  
Taken his breath and filled him back up with something… what was it… something he’d had and lost and here he still couldn’t remember. He’d done it, he’d remembered.  
It was gone now and he’d hurt what solace he’d found in that temporary shore of Hawke’s chest against his. He wasn’t going back. 

\--

Fenris left the Hanged Man early. As much as he liked releasing some of the rising tension in the city in result of the pressure that mounted a bit heavier on Hawke every day between the Viscount and the Qunari, he had his reasons for retreating to High Town.  
“I can’t imagine what Hawke sees in you.” Anders sneer sniped at him from the wall beside the door. He was thin, seemed like he would keep becoming thin for the rest of his life. For now it was just a hint of malnourishment hidden under broad shoulders. Fenris didn’t underestimate him, knew what he could do not from their shared alliances in combat but from the lyrium that crawled in his skin against his will.  
He didn’t underestimate any mage, but he would not fear this one.  
“It is done. Leave it be.” He grit from a tight jaw, body becoming somehow more like a wolf.  
“Well, good. I always knew he had some sense.” Anders murmured and he enough reason to be brave himself, even in face of Fenris.  
“Do not make light of this.” Fenris faced him, turning his chest and shoulders to regard him with flint in his eyes. “Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”  
As much as Anders knew what it was like to do hard things in life, his eyes didn’t soften.  
Fenris turned his back on the mage, the door swinging shut behind him as he left. 

\--

Fenris had never wanted any one else, truly. For him, life was about preservation so that perhaps he could see something some day that might reconcile things. Or maybe just because it’s what he was supposed to do.  
Not because they had starved him, or forced him, but because they’d felt that they had the right to put their hands on him. Something had to be worth living for, if not to refuse their wrong unjust sin.  
Life was less about falling in love and more about the basic thrill of breathing free. Every once in a while he could feel that.  
Somehow he’d gotten to a point, so free, where he’d walked himself right into the hands of a man who he could not put away.  
So he wanted from aside unable to stop the anvil heavy pound of his heart when he leapt to Hawke’s defense against the worst of Kirkwall. 

\--

“I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.” Fenris’ low voice rolled soft to the bed, looking at the bow of Hawke’s shoulders. He’d have done a thousand unrighteous things to keep Hawke his mother.  
“Just say something.” He raised honey eyes to him. His beard had grown some.  
“I’m here.” Fenris said without thinking. “I’m sorry.”


	6. Chapter 6

The fall of the Qunari was a feat that would seal Hawke’s position as one of reliance in Kirkwall and while Fenris was just pleased to be at his side at this point, he did not look lightly upon this. He knew that the city was dangerous, and he could feel even now with the pressure of the attacks over, the festering power of the mages. He knew that Hawke would be in the middle of it.   
He didn’t want to face that coming but he did nothing to ask Hawke to leave.   
Somehow, it never felt right. To so much as mention leaving the city that was falling around their heads, had been since they’d met inside it. 

\--

Laying in bed with Hawke, he let the cold of winter be shocked out by that warmth.   
And he tried to let his mind make its own realization that Danarius was dead.   
That there were not more mages to hunt for him when he turned his back, no more hunters to leap from sides of dark alleys and turn their spades and daggers on him, no more hunters to turn on and break in his teeth.   
He let one hand hold on to Hawke’s arm, to keep him on the ground while he figured it out.   
And Hawke held onto him to make sure, while the city asked him to take a side as they fought so hard, to make sure that he was still with him. 

\--

Fenris wanted to hate Anders, and he still could, perhaps. He could feel something so wrong in his magic now, could feel a difference that wasn’t there before, in his skin. He could feel a taint in Anders’ magic.   
And he wanted to, wanted to fight while they sat across from each other in Varric’s suite in the Hanged Man. While they discussed Meredith and Orsino. While Varric made less and less quips and Isabella looked so much more like the woman who broke from what held her back before, ready to do it again. While their friends made their decisions.   
Somehow, Fenris watched as none of them did. It seemed, while the whole city began to take sides, within this chain of people none of them could bring themselves to do it when the Knight Commander demanded third party in Hawke and the First Enchanter pleaded for his alliance. When Hawke turned his eyes on them, looking without asking for their help, there were no sides to be taken. Not yet.   
But Fenris knew that there were certainly discomforts between the polar ends.   
They all knew what Anders felt, it became more and more obvious every day in the definition of bone in his face, in the secrecy and destabilizing magic. And they could feel the discomfort in Fenris’ crossed arms while they all teetered in the middle of increasingly dubious Templars and bloodier, more desperate mages.   
Fenris listened as they discussed the most recent killing, Templars cut down by blood mages who would not be kept in the Kirkwall Circle for a moment longer without retaliation. He knew what he felt, he knew that fear and resistance sparked in his mind at the words. He knew that he was glad those mages had been stopped before they’d seen light outside of the circle.   
He knew that if he could go back and call someone, anyone, to drag his masters away to a cell of some circle that he would have done it. Anything to make the magic stop rendering him powerless.   
When there were so many mages and nothing his sword could do would stop them, when their power could manipulate magic that was underneath his skin.   
He’d come to accept that lyrium as home in his body, but he wouldn’t forget the mages who put it there.   
And he knew what he felt.   
But when he looked at Hawke and saw him cross his arms, head looking so heavy, sighing out, he wondered if he was wanting for Carver’s help. He wondered if he ever thought about that burning stubborn head of his brother’s, if it would help him make these bridges between scared humans and mages.   
For all of the times that Hawke said things were ‘not his place’ to interfere, he was brought to make some increasingly serious decisions.   
He couldn’t leave him to deal with this alone.   
And even further, he couldn’t leave him here to be dragged away by Templars some day, no matter how strong his magic was and Fenris knew.   
The tension carried on. 

\--

Fenris sat next to him on the roof of his crumbling estate, holding the bottle of wine because if he had to choose he’d rather Hawke not have much more.   
The cold sun lowered over Kirkwall, the unshadowing light relinquishing so that the differences between Hightown and Lowtown were less pronounced. Even in the dark, the pale moon still reverberated unfairly bright off the white stone of High Town.   
The city raised by slaves, and Fenris was started to betray himself as he thought that perhaps it was making a new kind of slaves in mages.   
If any of the Templars decided to act on Hawke’s status as an apostate, it would be no different from Danarius coming to drag Fenris back in ropes.   
Fenris shook his head, taking a drink. Hawke was raised an apostate, surely it couldn’t change. They were safe for now.   
“I’m here.” Fenris blurted out into the quiet, “Hawke – for whatever happens.”   
He turned his dark head to him, and leaned his shoulder against his.   
He heaved a great sigh and breathed, “Fenris.”   
Fenris felt the cold in his gut as he realized that he may well be entertaining the possibility of defending blood mages if that’s where Hawke led him. The cold melted away when he leaned his white hair against his, because he would not abandon this. And that was going to be enough, even if it felt wrong. 

\--

Fenris kissed him in the quiet of the mansion, distracting him from the absence of Carver’s incessant griping and mothering, or Leandra’s forever gone sounds.   
Hawke seemed to be doing alright. Fenris was kissing a strong person, and he knew it.   
The magma deep power of Hawke’s magic radiated through Fenris’ skin and he adjusted so that the lyrium didn’t ache. The first touch still made him twitch some times. But he realized that the power he could feel no longer made him afraid, if anything he shared its warmth. 

\--

The city really did fall down around their heads and Fenris would look back and wonder how it didn’t make him shudder to bite the bit and follow Hawke. When those eyes turned on him after he made his decision, for the First Enchanter, when they made eye contact. He felt the memories that he would never get back and the hands that he could never stop from touching him in the past, those people of magic.   
He followed this mage – this man – into the fire that ignited in the struggling of tainted Templars and new apostates. This was not the life that Hawke had grown in, his father had kept them far from the eyes of Templars, but now they watched as mages turned to heaven or hell for means of freedom.   
And Fenris listened to them being beaten down into their cages like he had been, stayed at Hawke’s side and did as he did. Protected the mages.   
He stood between both Hawke’s as the sky trembled with the madness of what Anders had done to the Chantry.   
When the time came to meet what would come outside the doors of the Gallows, he kissed Hawke and felt free of his own contrition. Because mages or Templars mattered less than the person in his hands and whether or not they would see each other through this mess. That was a lot to matter. Enough to make him raise his sword and save the mages.   
Because his place was at Hawke’s side, ready to protect him from whatever may come. 

\--

In the aftermath, Fenris found much comfort in a little length of red silk around his wrist which he rubbed his thumb over while he settled his humming lyrium. After Kirkwall he was still getting it back in balance, truthfully.  
Hawke’s hand found his often, just a brush of fingers, as they put hell behind them and wondered what else there was to be found out there. 

_If there is a future to be had, I would walk into it gladly by your side._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck was this, idk. My tumblr is 
> 
> thisshipsailsitselff


End file.
